


Crossing Over (With John Watson)

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ghosties, M/M, Spiritualism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:40:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn’t expect anything to happen, of course, but he repeats the chant as he remembers doing as a young boy. “We call upon you from our side to yours, commune with us.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossing Over (With John Watson)

**Author's Note:**

> For the October contest at [fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic](http://fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic.tumblr.com/post/34275211865/fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic-fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic).

It smells of sandalwood and not faintly, either. The air is perfumed with a thick, heavy smoke that twists and curls as the Met makes their way through the first floor of a rather lavish home in Chelsea. They sidestep luxurious furniture and pad across extraordinarily expensive rugs as they make their way to the back sitting room.

Several officers and technicians mill about, swabbing this and that, plucking at the window coverings with tweezers, attempting to search for evidence through the thick layer of incense smoke. The sitting room too is lavishly adorned, though in deeper colors, darker reds and browns and blacks. It gives the atmosphere a rather sedate quality, as though the lack of color is stealing all of the sound and air from the room. 

Lestrade manages to maneuver himself inside, John right on his heels. “This is where the body was found, though the other kids say they don’t know anything about it. Smoking up on the roof when it happened, supposedly.”

John blinks, reigns in the smile that threatens to curl his lips. “They’re nineteen Lestrade, hardly kids.” 

Lestrade shrugs and pulls on a pair of latex gloves then hands a pair to John. “They have the suffix ‘teen’ in their ages... they’re kids,” the D.I. says and twists his own mouth into a frown as he takes a preliminary walk around the room. “As I said to your partner - where in bloody hell is he, by the way - body showed no signs of trauma, door was locked from the inside. Windows fastened shut, no obvious signs of foul play.”

Lestrade waits a few moments, regards the evidence markers on the floor. “Suppose I won’t need to catch Sherlock up anyway,” he says under his breath, pointing between markers one and two. “Body was found here, candles were still lit when we managed to enter the room.”

John nods and assess the room visually. Living in Chelsea the owners of the home are obviously wealthy but judging by the furnishing and decor they’re more than that. This falls into the territory of filthy, ridiculously rich, really. He leans over to press his fingers experimentally along a drape covering what seems to be a very intricate wall mural.

John pulls back as though he’s been burned. Oh yes, absolutely, one-hundred percent filthy rich.

“The kids are all on the way to the nearest station for further questioning but they wouldn’t tell us what was going on in here... these are Eton and private school graduates. Not a spot on their records. No booze, no drugs... not what I’d call a party. “ He passes around the table while keeping his gaze focused on the table top. “But... the candles, the Ouija board... I mean, it _is_ just a week until Halloween,” Lestrade supposed, managing to get down onto one knee to glance beneath the table, torch in one hand, darting this way and that.

John nods and keeps to the back, out of the way of the crime scene techs who are diligently snapping photos of the room. “Last time I remember doing one of these was... god, had to have been first year of college,” John says, a twinge of a laugh in his voice. “Richie Spitzer kept shaking the table to scare all of the girls, thought it would make them jump into our arms.”

Lestrade chuckles, torques his head to the left and picks at something on the underside of the table with a pair of tweezers. “And how’d that work out?”

“He ended up with a black eye, I ended up with my first kiss.” At that, Sherlock swoops into the room, coat billowing behind him. His figure cuts an impressively apropos character amongst the obsidian curtains and barely-dissipated, scented smoke. 

“Smooth.”

He arches a brow crossly, glancing between the D.I. and the doctor and asks, “What’s smooth? Have you found something? Finally?”

“John’s flirting technique is or rather _was_ smooth and finally? We got here not an hour ago!”

Sherlock’s gaze is drawn to John briefly, his eyes sizing him up, culminating in a tiny glare. “What in the world does that have to do with this scene?”

Struggling to stand properly, Lestrade curses under his breath, explaining on the way up. “John’s first kiss, during a seance,” the D.I. chuckles even as he presses a palm to his lower back and winces. “Christ, not as limber as I used to be.”

“No, you’re not,” Sherlock bites as he swoops around the room maniacally for a moment, dramatically dropping to his knees next to the window to inspect the sill. Nimble fingers probe at his pocket and he produces his mobile, fingers flying across the screen; the other men remain silent as Sherlock pulls up what he is looking for on his wireless device.

“Ah!” comes his thrilled explanation and Sherlock stands, does a one-eighty to face the other two men, face suddenly dropping into a frown. “That’s preposterous.”

John simply raises a brow, arms crossed against his chest and waits for Sherlock to elaborate. When neither he nor Lestrade prompt him, Sherlock rolls his eyes and repockets his mobile. “First kiss at a pseudo-macabre reincarnation farce, John. How terrifically... bleak.” His lip twists in a little sneer and John rolls his eyes, dissecting what exactly Sherlock has said to him. 

Recognition crests over his face and a well of excitement rises in his chest. “Did you just google what a seance is, Sherlock?” John’s voice is filled with mirth and his eyes shine with amusement. “You don’t know what a _seance_ is?”

Face blank, Sherlock sniffs and flits his attention once more back and forth between the two men. “And it’s not to drudge up some sort of _reincarnation_ either, seances are for talking to the dead.” John says it so matter-of-factly that he very nearly laughs at himself. 

“Talking to the dead,” Sherlock says very slowly and carefully.

John allows a laugh to bubble out. “Yeah.”

“...are you listening to yourself right now, John?” Sherlock asks rather seriously, taking a few steps closer to his flatmate and ducking down to his eye level. “There is no afterlife and thus, one cannot converse with spirits.”

John stares into Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock stares back. 

“It’s just a lark, Sherlock. A bit of harmless fun that people indulge in to scare each other. Though, to be honest, there are people who make a living off of it. Selling their ‘skills’ for talking to the dead to gullible saps who’ve lost loved ones. That bit’s, well, sad, but...”

There’s nothing to be said for it really; Sherlock straightens and blinks. He doesn’t understand this and he doesn’t have to say one thing to prove it, John can read it all over his face. It has to do with fun and excitement and Sherlock’s mind can’t make the leap that anything aside from murder and mayhem might fulfill the need for adventure. The detective is moments away from a sulk and he’s about to get stroppy and so John takes a step towards the table as well. “It’s just fun,” he shrugs. “It’s just what kids do when they want to pretend they have powers or scare their friends or... seek a thrill.”

“Yes?” Sherlock asks, eyes softening.

“It’s a bit about... the unknown. Even if it’s not real... there’s nothing conclusive to prove it’s not real, is there? The afterlife?” 

At that, Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes, turns his back to John. “Tweezers, Lestrade. There’s something by the sill just _there_.”

\---

“You know Spiritualists swear that they’ve called upon ghosts before, it’s the whole basis of their religion,” John says as they exit the cab on Baker Street. Though what he’s saying is quite true, he knows he’s just needling at Sherlock’s ignorance of the matter. “Mary Todd Lincoln, the wife of American President Abraham Lincoln-”

“I’m well aware of _Abraham Lincoln_ ,” Sherlock mutters as he opens the front door to their flat and tosses the door behind in so that John can only deflect it with the heel of his palm. The hard wood bounces off of the doctor’s hand before he turns to close it, and follows Sherlock up into the flat. 

When he makes it into the sitting room, Sherlock is nowhere to be found. “And you know,” John shouts, not willing to let this go for no reason he can quite put his finger on. “If it’s a comfort to someone... believing that they can speak with people who’ve passed, isn’t that... doesn’t that... I think that’s rather nice.”

He hears the floorboards creak and groan as Sherlock moves about in the other room. “And besides all that, it’s quite fun to be _scared_ , now and again.” John waits a moment. “Yeah?” When he hears nothing back he sighs and takes off his coat, rounds the kitchen table and pulls a beer from the refrigerator..

Sherlock emerges from his room, divested of his shoes and coat, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. He glances at John and rolls his eyes ( _He’s going to sever his optic nerve at the rate he’s going today_ , John thinks) and turns towards the refrigerator, head ducking in when he opens it with a flourish. “In order to become frightened, in order to _feel_ fear, one has to acknowledge the threat of something to their person or suspend rational thought.” Sherlock shuffles around a few tupperware containers before locating the one he’s gone in search of.

His hands make quick work of tidying the table and popping the lid off. “Thus, one must truly believe in the fantastically misguided notion of an afterlife and thereby _ghosts_ as you call them, or apparitions, what have you.” Sherlock shakes his head as a strange scent lifts from the tupperware and permeates the kitchen. “It’s in direct opposition to science.”

John takes a seat across from him at the table and tugs a bit at the fraying beer label. He watches on as Sherlock takes a scalpel to what looks suspiciously like a human heart. “But there’s no way to prove or disprove the existence of ghosts, Sherlock.”

That garners him a positively withering look from underneath Sherlock’s fringe and a smile gently blooms on John’s mouth. “John, please do not tell me you’re going to argue the existence of ghosts.” It’s absurd, truly, that the man sitting before him, dissecting a _human_ heart, who constantly looks and acts and _is_ ethereal doesn’t even entertain the offhand chance that something so banally paranormal as ghosts might, possibly, on another plane, exist.

“We can’t know everything,” John tries and takes a pull of his beer; before him, Sherlock carves away at the left ventricle. “And you _don’t_ , genius or no.”

There’s a humming, a low, paced sound and Sherlock nods once, belatedly. “No, I suppose not.”

The smile that paints John’s lips at Sherlock’s concession is bright and wonderful and Sherlock manages to catch his gaze briefly and flick a smile back; a new warm weight settles in the bit of John’s stomach and he tears his eyes away before the warmth can escape to paint his cheeks. John watches him for a time, long enough to warrant getting a second beer and peeling the label from that one as well. 

“I’ll need to confiscate a kidney from Barts,” Sherlock says suddenly sometime later, sticking the bloodied scalpel into the center of the heart without preamble. “You’ll need to run interference for me.” He is standing before John has even acknowledged the request.

John blinks, blinks again, finishes off his beer. “Right,” comes his quiet acquiescence, still seated at the table as Sherlock bounds to his room to retrieve his coat. “I’ll run interference if you...”

He bursts back into the kitchen, wrapped up in the greatcoat and the playful glint in Sherlock’s eyes surprises John. “Thought that was a bit easy,” the detective says with a gentle smile. That too surprises him. “Let’s have it.”

“I’ll assist you in a very highly illegal attempt at stealing a _human kidney_ ,” John says seriously, voice sounding as though tethered tightly; and how, how is this any _less_ absurd than the notion of an afterlife? “If we can have a seance tomorrow evening.”

Sherlock sulks a bit, gives his flatmate a severe look once more, chin tilted down to prove his displeasure. “Oh is _that_ all.”

“Well it seems like it’s causing you some great difficulty, so yes, I’d say that would do it,” comes the snarky, self-satisfied reply. 

Sherlock breezes past him towards the door. “Ridiculous, absurd,” he twines his scarf around his neck and twists his mouth into a purse. “Fine.”

“Good,” John says as though he’s not surprised. 

“You’ll buy Thai beforehand. Or afterwards,” Sherlock says as he takes the steps down two by two, rounds on John so quickly once they reach the landing that they actually brush noses. “What exactly is the proper dining etiquette for seances? You _are_ the expert, after all.”

“...Git,” John manages as he remembers to breathe, licks his lips, swears he can taste Sherlock’s breath on his mouth.

\---

“Oh dear, we tried one of those back after Catherine’s husband - you know Catherine, she’s the one I play Hearts with - after her husband died; in fact, she lived down in that basement flat for a bit afterwards. Course, the damp was too much on her joints. But!” The landlady took a deep breath and continued with her organization of the kitchen cabinets. “She was going through a phase, candles and everything, we had,” Mrs. Hudson says in response to John’s telling her (and very unceremoniously) that he was going to try a seance.

As though that isn’t quite odd for a forty year old man to be saying. But Mrs. Hudson, dear Mrs. Hudson just continues puttering about in the kitchen, talking about how the incense had caused Dottie’s asthma to kick in and she and Marge and Catherine had had to hail a cab to A&E and can you believe how much that fare cost?

John listens politely as he goes about covering nearly every flat surface in the room with candles. Tapers, squat little chunky candles, tea lights and votives are placed all over the sitting room. When John is finished, he stands back to survey his handiwork, making certain that none of wicks are too close to anything that can remotely be considered flammable.

Mrs. Hudson joins him, finished with her tidying up, and glances around. “Oh my, this will be quite romantic,” and with that she clasps her hands to her chest. “Not what you’re going for dear but if it were me, well, I’d take one step into this flat and think I was being wooed!”

John’s mouth twists, heat rising in his cheeks. “Well, considering Sherlock and I discussed having... one of these... I’m fairly certain he’s sure where my interests lie this evening.”

“ _This_ evening?” she says saucily and reaches over to pat his hand. “I’m just fooling, dear. You enjoy yourselves and try not to call up any malevolent ghosties or ghouls. And do try not to set the flat ablaze!” With that, she leaves him to finish making up the room.

John pulls the curtains closed tight, clears the sitting room table of papers and books. There are motions to go through, a scene to properly set; puts a lighter to sticks of incense and he watches as the smoke struggles against the oxygen, lifts and curls. The candles next, cheap, white bargain store bits placed without strategy across the room and a fire glowing bright in the hearth. 

With quick fingers he shuts the light in the kitchen and takes in the ominous tableau he’s created. Oh yes, this will do quite nicely. A thrill runs up his spine; it’s so... spooky.

While he waits for his flatmate he makes some toast and tea, reads the bits of the paper he’d skipped in the morning, and does the rest of the washing up. John runs through what he’ll say in his head, the words he’ll use to ‘call up the dead.’ He mentally updates the diction he’d used in his youth, twisting the words to fit the more adult, ghostly atmosphere.

John still isn’t exactly sure why he’s on about this, why he won’t let this go. Of all of the things that John is aware of that Sherlock did not experience in his youth, performing a seance is fairly low on the need-to-experience list. It’s just that this is _fun_ , it’s a lark and the spooky atmosphere _excites_ him. 

By the time Sherlock arrives back at Baker Street the sky has fallen inky black and several of the tapers have created delicate pools of wax at their bases. He hears Sherlock long before he sees him. The slam of the cab door is distinctive, the way he turns the key in the lock. His footfalls are heavy and energetic and when he finally opens the door to the flat he isn’t so much entering as being ejected from the hallway as though by force. “John, I-!”

He acknowledges the state of the room, tentatively sniffs at the air. “Oh yes, all of that tit for tat business.”

John finishes the last dregs of tea on a nod as Sherlock does a cursory lap around the sitting room, dancing his fingers just above the flames of some of the candles before coming to stand in the entry to the kitchen.

“John Watson, you’ve set the mood,” Sherlock says, the bottom dropping out of his voice, sarcasm positively oozing. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you were trying to seduce me.”

John stands and dog-ears the corner of the page he’s been on in his medical journal. “Oh yes, because I’d have to put in this much _effort_ to seduce you,” John shoots back and they both stand there staring at one another. 

“Shall we?” Sherlock asks roughly, tearing his eyes away and gesturing wildly toward the living room. “I’m absolutely famished and the sooner this is over with...”

John moves to the living room and stands before the coffee table and waits for Sherlock to remove his coat. He does so quickly, running his fingers through his hair and then shaking them out. “Are you comfortable? You should be comfortable so if you’d like to change you should do it now.”

“I should be-John, just _get on with it_ , will you please?” Sherlock asks, moving to the other side of the table. “Entirely _childish_ ,” he curses under his breath as he situates himself. “What now?”

John glances at Sherlock’s eyes, his irises glinting with flickering candle and firelight; it’s quite breathtaking for a moment and John allows himself a quiet, quick indulgence. “Sit, on the floor,” John motions and Sherlock goes to do so, stopping before he’s bent all the way down and grabbing a throw pillow from the sofa. 

Just as he’s about to place it beneath his bottom, “Is this alright or will this throw off the... whatever?” His free hand waves in the air suggestively even as his eyes flash with good humor. 

“That’s fine,” John says, holding his annoyance at bay as Sherlock seats himself on the floor across from him. 

Sherlock sits and waits expectantly while John situates himself, taking a moment to wrinkle up his nose, “It smells like a uni dorm in here.”

“Sandalwood,” John explains and places his hands palm-up on the table. 

Sherlock glances from John’s hands to his eyes and then perks a brow. John simply wiggles his fingers and waits while the detective lifts his hands to place them in atop his own. They remain quiet, Sherlock skin against John’s.

Sherlock is the one who breaks the thready tension that is somehow winding its way around them. “Is this the portion of the evening where you reach out to any spirits present in the room?” Sherlock asks sarcastically, cannot refrain from squeezing against John’s palm, just because he can, it seems. 

John’s mouth turns up into an amalgamation of a fond smile. “It is, in fact,” John claims and quickly squeezes Sherlock’s hand hard. When the other man goes to pull back in anger, John holds tight. “Now shut your gob for ten minutes.”

Another eye roll is his answer, but John just rolls his shoulders and emits a long, slow breath. “Oh spirits, we call upon you to show yourselves to us.”

John begins, Sherlock heaves a very put upon sigh. John thinks that perhaps he doesn’t have the voice or demeanor for this to come off properly. There’s not a mysterious bone in him; Sherlock, on the other hand, would be a wonder at this. He allows himself a moment of indulgence, imagining Sherlock calling upon spritis with his dusky voice, trying to tease them out with his plethora of delicious inflections. 

Again, Sherlock huffs, shakes John’s hands hard. 

“Oh spirits,” John continues through gritted teeth. “We call upon you from our side to yours. Commune with us, walk with us on this plane.” There is the hissing fizzle and pop from the fire, the gentle flickering of the candlelight flame. The dulled sound of the traffic rolling along Baker Street nearly drowns out the hum of the refrigerator, but other than that, there is no sound. 

John doesn’t expect anything to happen, of course, but he repeats the chant as he remembers doing as a young boy. “We call upon you from our side to yours, commune with us.” He licks his lips, says with a bit more conviction, “Walk with us on this plane.”

He holds his breath for a moment, actually listening for a sign, any sign, until he becomes aware of what he’s doing and shakes himself out of it. Silly, really.

“In the electronic age it would be much more beneficial if you’d just text,” Sherlock says, removing his hand briefly to snatch his mobile from his front pocket and dropping it onto the table. “If you would prefer,” Sherlock says faux brightly. “Oh, spirits-”

John glares at him and scrambles to snatch up his hand once more; they struggle for a moment, palm against palm until John slams their hands down, together atop the table. “Just, … _just_.” John pleads.

Sherlock bites his bottom lip, rolls his eyes in annoyance but does his best to take on a relaxed posture. “If there are any spirits with us on this evening,” John murmurs, voice suddenly low, intent. “Please make your presence known, please share this mortal plane with us.”

Nothing happens but John smiles when he feels Sherlock’s palm twitch in his. “Spirits, we welcome you to this place. If you are here, give us a sign.”

A beat.

“Give us a sign,” John asks again and just as he’s closing his mouth he feels a breeze brush past his cheeks. For a moment he holds very, very still until he feels it again and his eyes fly open, gaze meeting Sherlock’s. His is startled but the detective’s is pitying.

“Very nice attempt John but-” Sherlock cuts himself off when he notices the sudden moistness of John’s palms, the slight shiver that has wracked his arms. His gaze torn away from Sherlock, he is glancing now towards the kitchen with a look of such unabashed wonder and fear on his face that Sherlock is reasonably certain that he isn’t putting on airs.

He can - after all - read John like a children’s book. 

The detective flicks his eyes from John to the kitchen and his breath stills, suddenly, seizing up in his throat. A light, shimmery mist has begun to coalesce just above their kitchen table. It is soundless and so dim that Sherlock thinks for a moment that they are both hallucinating this, that perhaps it’s the incense smoke caught on a shaft of light just _so_.

The mist begins to shiver and shake a dull humming emanates from the room.

Neither one of them speak for long, long moments, though John’s lips are moving without sound. “I’m not seeing that,” Sherlock says, his voice tight with the lie he’s telling. He sees it just as John does.

“No,” John agrees, shakily. “No, no, _yes_ ,” and they stare together at the hazy, shimmering figure who is bisected by the kitchen table. The shape of it is undoubtedly human and undoubtedly male but not distinguishable otherwise, save for the porkpie hat that clearly sits atop the apparition’s head. 

“Who are you?” John manages, his hands gripping Sherlock’s so tightly that he’s quite sure he’ll break bones. 

John is beginning to ask again when a heartier breeze blows through the sitting room and extinguishes most of the candles. Both men turn to gape at the extinguished flames and when they whip their focus back around to the kitchen there _is nothing_.

They sit in silence for a few moments, both breathing heavily before Sherlock tears his hands away, stands and flicks on all of the lights, nearly trips over John as he tears across the room to toss open the drapes. “Well that was a complete and utter waste of my time,” Sherlock says quickly, leaning over to snatch up his phone and text away. “Now. Now. Now,” he repeats himself, hands shaking as fingers fly over keys. “You were taking me out for Thai, no? I don’t, no takeaway, let’s, let’s go out, shall we?”

When Sherlock pauses long enough to meet his eyes, John notices the underlying fear there, that the man’s beliefs have been shaken to their core; not just a bit not good, wholly not good. John hasn’t even _begun_ to process what they’ve both just seen. And they haven’t both just seen it, haven’t they? “Sherlock... we...”

“John, no,” he turns away and grabs at his coat on the back of the door, trying twice before finally getting it in hand. He throws it on even as he hops about the room to blow out the rest of the candles that are still burning. He extinguishes the incense with a press of his fingers. “Thai.”

John still gapes at him.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, squeezes his eyes shuts and then opens them very nearly on a shout. “Thai. Now, John!”

John springs up from the floor and hastily reaches for his own coat, following Sherlock as he darts out of the flat.

\---

They walk to the restaurant in silence.

They eat in silence.

They return to their flat, in silence.

\--- 

John puts all of the candles into a bag and stores it beneath the sink. He’s about to dump the incense in the rubbish when, as he’s walking by the kitchen table, he glances about and then leans over the table top, pressing both hands down on it hard.

It doesn’t give.

Eyes widening, John swallows and finishes with his tidying, hurrying up to bed while Sherlock remains on the sofa, reclining.

His head, however, is nestled against the left-hand armrest instead of the favored right-hand rest. 

He _stares_ at the kitchen table. 

\---

It’s half-two in the morning when John awakens to the creaking of the stairs; he fights the urge to sit up and just lays, remembering as his eyes adjust to the low light what he and Sherlock had witnessed earlier in the evening. His body is suddenly on alert. Of course, it’s likely that the entity climbing the stairs is his flatmate but what if... what if it’s something else? _What if it’s something else?_

John holds his breath for long moments before there is a soft knock at his door. “John, I can hear your breathing, you are awake, I’m opening the door.” Though the words are matter-of-fact, Sherlock’s tone is low and paced. 

The door swings slowly open on its hinges to reveal Sherlock standing in pajamas and dressing gown, looking so thoroughly perplexed that John nearly laughs. “I...”

“Yes?”

After a swallow, he tries again. “This evening...” Sherlock begins and takes a step into John’s room. “It was...” Sherlock stares straight ahead as he gathers himself up and stands very straight and very still, on guard. “I’m not frightened.”

“You’re not frightened,” John deadpans.

Sherlock shakes his head and then quickly glances out into the hallway behind him. “Of course not.”

“Right,” John whispers and then falls back against the pillows, stares at the ceiling for a moment before he gathers a corner of his bedclothes in a hand and pulls it back. “Get in, just for tonight.” Sherlock stares down at John’s duvet and the doctor let’s his hand fall to the bed.

“Would it be easier... would it be better if I told you that... I’m a bit frightened?” John asks, just a hint of humor twitching in his voice. ‘Bit’ is a ridiculous understatement, but he certainly doesn’t need to admit that to Sherlock at the moment. . 

“Well,” Sherlock says, doesn’t even bother with subterfuge, steps forward and sliding easily into his bed. “If you’re frightened.”

“I am,” John whispers, allowing for a flicker of a hopeful smile as Sherlock takes it upon himself, with grave determination, to gather him up in his arms. “I’m terrified,” John says into the air of the bedroom and settles himself back against Sherlock. 

Neither one of them fall to sleep easily, both pretending not to listen for the tread of ghostly feet on the steps.


End file.
